Thunderstorms
by PythonFan
Summary: She looks back into her past from far away, and muses on secrets and pain. JoshDonna AU. Angsty one-shot. Based on a Longfellow poem.


Thunderstorms

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Timeline: Alternate universe for everthing after Episode 4.15, _Inauguration: Over There_

Rating: T

One-shot, J/D; Donna POV

I shut the window, slightly cracked, as the beginnings of a spring storm begin to patter the pane. Thunder rumbles, far off in the distance.

I love this end of the day, this quiet. Lonely, sure, but it gives me time to think; I don't have a lot of "me-time" on my hands anymore. In fact, as far as "me-time" goes, I've had very little in my entire adult life. Whether it was a boyfriend, or work, or someone unfortunate enough to be dependent on me, there have always been people around. Wonderful people, people I love, people I miss, but people nonetheless.

I finish placing the dishes into the dishwasher, then wipe my hands on my jeans haphazardly. I finally make my way into my living room, turning my attention to the blaring television. Even though it's basically been background noise all day, it brings me back to that place. That period of time when I helped to work for the betterment of my country.

That's all over now, but the Beltway, unfortunately, does not let go so easily. It permeates into your skin and blood and remains. It's been over a year now, and I still get a stomach-turning feeling of homesickness whenever I hear the "Meet the Press" theme. It's powerful. And extremely painful.

Right now, Paula Zahn is discussing the new gun control law slowly weaving its way through committee in the House. As I gather some wayward junk strewn across the floor, I flinch in silent prayer that it passes. It's so important to them—all of them.

As she prepares to go to commercial, she announces the teaser for after the break. "Continuing our discussion on gun control, we'll introduce our panel after the break. Representing Congressional opposition to the bill is House Majority Whip, Christopher van Allen. White House Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman will join us in support of the proposed law, one of the first major policy initiatives of President Bartlet's second term. That and more, coming up on Paula Zahn Now."

Damn. The nausea hits me so fully that I'm forced to sink to the ground from my crouching position. I've seen him from time to time, of course, making the rounds on weekly talk shows. It always, _always_, results in this kind of situation. It's physical pain. Not just sadness or regret, but a feeling like a punch to the gut.

I sit there, listening to a commercial for Crest, trying to calm my pounding heart and shaking hands and gasping breaths. It takes a full minute for me to regain some semblance of composure.

How sad am I? Sitting here in the dark, in the midst of a storm, by myself, paralyzed with…something. Not fear, not anxiety. Just…loss. An overwhelming sense of loss. It's only magnified by those pestering thoughts of what could have been. For all of us.

I mentally scold myself. I did what was best. It would have ruined everyone that I loved in D.C. Not just him, but everyone. It wasn't fair to put the entire legacy of the Bartlet administration in jeopardy for my own selfish ends. I've almost convinced myself.

I look for the remote; I can't do this right now. My cursory glance around reveals my search to be fruitless. Instead, I crawl across the floor, reaching up to switch the television off. The Coca-Cola ad immediately flips to black. Now there is nothing, not even the glow and the blare of the T.V. Just me and my thoughts.

I make my way over to the couch and stretch out on it. I reach out, still slightly trembling, to grab my book from the coffee table. I was looking forward to reading it until about a minute and a half ago. It's probably not even what one would consider a book, per se; entitled "_Wisconsin Curiosities: Quirky Characters, Roadside Oddities & Other Offbeat Stuff_," it's written by a local radio host who outlines some bizarre characters and trivia from my state. It's right up my alley; trivia and factoids make for some amazing reading, infinitely more so than crappy Harlequin romances.

The rain pounds harder. Lightning, thunder, the whole bit. Under other circumstances, I would be charmed and amazed. Now it just makes feel small and weak and utterly without anyone. It's ceased to be "me-time" and has morphed into stark loneliness. I struggle to focus on a particular entry concerning the world's largest talking cow, but find it impossible. Probably because I know he's going to be right there at the press of a button. It drives me crazy, knowing that I'm missing a chance to see him.

I tell myself I sound remarkable stalker-esque, but I throw the book down all the same. It just ain't gonna work. Instead, I dig around for the remote. If I can find it, I'll mute it. I've heard all the arguments for and against, anyway, and I'm in no great hurry to hear Representative van Allen argue for the loosening of restrictions on gun ownership. If Rosslyn had turned out differently, we wouldn't have even gotten what we did.

I'm finally victorious, finding the remote between the couch cushions. With trembling hands, I push the "power" button, then "mute" immediately after, not wanting to hear even one word of this.

Paula is talking, then all of a sudden, the shot cuts to him. And there he is, before my eyes, not eight feet away. It takes me a moment to adjust. He's aged a bit, his hairline has receded ever-so-slightly, the faintest beginnings of lines are forming at his eyes and forehead.

But it's him. Josh. My Joshua. No, not mine. Not anymore.

Whatever he's saying, he's arguing passionately—as if there was any other way for him to argue—hands flying around animatedly, face strained in earnestness, mouth moving a mile a minute.

A little older, a little more tired—that doesn't surprise me. He's going full-force like he always has. Adding to the stress, I'm sure, are his upcoming nuptials. I heard that little sliver of information four months ago. It got a fair bit of press on a slow news day. Two political powerhouses, Joshua Lyman and Amy Gardner, to be joined in blissful unity, 22 August 2004. Supposedly, he proposed on New Years'. Guess his answer to "Should auld acquaintance be forgot/And never brought to mind?" was a resounding "no."

Well, in _her_ case, anyway.

See? I haven't changed that much. I make lame jokes.

Except now I make the lame jokes to cover up the pain. Physical, emotion, mental…you name it, it hurts like hell. I can't even cry anymore. This kind of hurt goes beyond tears. I can't figure out how to express it properly, even with help from a therapist.

I don't know if I was right or wrong. Leaving when I did could very well have saved President Bartlet from yet another in a long line of scandals. God only knows what would have happened if this had gotten out. Yet…depriving Josh of what I did seems like a tremendous wrong, something unforgivable and unnatural.

Does he deserve this?

Because I notice as I look closer, his charming smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. Even at the lowest points of his life, after his father's death, after Rosslyn, in the midst of scandal, a true smile make his eyes twinkle in joy. Those eyes I've gotten to know so well these last months. The corners of his mouth turn upward, yes, but his eyes stay dull and brown. Of course, the man is arguing about the subject that damn near killed him; I can't imagine that this would be the ideal time for a true smile.

But it makes me wonder.

I close my eyes. In exhaustion? In misery? In pain? I can't say. All I know is that the sound of the raging storm outside whisks me back to that night in January of last year. He rode to my apartment, my knight in shining armor.

Okay, my knight in a yellow cab. Along with several of his man-buddies. Hey, it's my memory; I'll do what I will with it.

We danced the night away at the ball, getting ever closer to that moment five years in the making. And though we had to break away to deal with the situation in Kundu, I don't think we had ever been more intimate. As I brought him the needed files, he'd take the time to grab my hand and graze my knuckles with his thumb, grinning in that naughty-little-boy way of his.

The light snowfall of that evening progressively morphed into a wet, wintry thunderstorm. As we were finally wrapping up that night, about 3:30AM, I was sliding some files into the proper cabinets when he came up to me. Everyone else had left the vicinity. He removed the remaining files from my hand, tossing them onto a nearby desk. He shut the cabinet that formed the barrier between us. I remember making some inane remark about how serious he looked. He did look freakishly serious, though.

His brow wrinkled and he fixed his piercing gaze on me. "Don't ever do that again."

"Do what?"

"Don't do what you did. Don't cover for anyone. You've been here through the lowest, darkest moments…you got _me _through. If _I _come to celebrate, it should only be in your shadow. I need you with me. I needed you for the last four years, and I need you for the next. Don't put your head on the chopping block for anyone, Donnatella Moss. You're far too valuable."

There was a pause.

"And you look like an angel tonight."

He took my face in his hands, and kissed me on the forehead.

Don't ask me why, but I covered his hands with my own, pulling them off. Still holding his hands at our sides, I stood on my tiptoes. "Thank you for taking a chance on me," I whispered, "Wild Thing." I added as an after thought. He grinned, and ever so gently, the small gap between us closed, and our lips met.

It wasn't fireworks or bells or choirs bursting into a song. No, it went far deeper. That kiss was a promise, a vow, a proclamation of the love we never vocalized. There was, simply, a feeling of _rightness_. This was long overdue. It didn't just whitewash over the pain of the last five years. For those few moments, those long-covered wounds began to heal. It was forbidden, yes, but it was right. And it wouldn't—couldn't—wait any longer.

Draped in his jacket, I followed him outside and down the street amidst the frigid downpour. We managed to hail a cab and drove to his place. There wasn't much talking, as I remember. We both knew what was going to happen. We knew, because that's how we are. After five years of working for someone 24 hours a day, seven days a week, you learn. Especially if you happen to fall in love with him I just remember sitting in the back of the cab, blanketed in his overcoat, slumped next to him, our arms in a tangle around each other. We were at peace with the situation. We were finally righting what was wrong.

That night was the night I really _gave myself_ to someone. Sure, there was sex, and even good sex, but never what happened that stormy January night. I gave a piece of my soul to him that I will never get back, no matter how long I live, no matter how many relationships I have. If and when I marry, no matter how much adoration I have for my husband, there will always be this empty space, like a missing puzzle piece, that is Josh's.

I won't go into all the gory details; it's just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you. I don't particularly feel like reliving the physical reality; the emotional is far too much on its own.

There was so much happiness and love present that night. So much hope that I knew I was in trouble as I lay awake that night. As we lay there tangled up together that night, I ran my hands through his brown curls while he slept, kissing the top of his head, protective as a mother hen. It was then that I realized that I was irretrievably in love with him. Joshua Lyman, my boss, Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States of America. It had always been there, but what had transpired that night cemented it forever. There was no going back, no pretending. He was arrogant and whiny and dependent with premature balding—not exactly what one would consider the ideal Prince Charming. But he was mine.

I t scared me more than anything in two ways. First, the realization that I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone in my life made me anxious. My stomach fluttered, and all those estrogen-induced images of marriage and babies arose in my mind. The idea that I could do all of that with Josh stunned me. It was scary. A good scary, though.

The other scary was a lot less fun. In fact, it led to the most heart-wrenching, painful decision of my life. I could see it: the brand-spanking-new Bartlet term kicks off with a sex scandal: the Deputy Chief of Staff and his blonde assistant ten years his junior. It wasn't just Josh and me, it was everyone. Sex scandals ruined careers and policy goals all the time. No matter how unfair it might seem, that's the way it was in D.C. Not to mention, it's already happened twice in the Bartlet administration, first with Sam and, more recently, with former Vice President Hoynes.

As I lay there, I decided I had to leave; the sooner, the better. Most probably, I wouldn't be able to even look at him in the office tomorrow. I didn't want to talk to anyone about it, for fear that they might try and talk me out of it. I didn't want to second-guess myself, or plant the first seeds of doubt in my mind. It's like pulling off a band-aid, the faster you go, the less painful it is.

At this point, I was sobbing silently. Tears streaming down my face, I carefully slid out from under him (that was easy enough, he sleep like a log). I gathered my clothes and dressed as best I could in the dim apartment, helped only by the momentary flashes of lightning that lit up the slowly brightening sky. I scribbled him a note. I don't remember what it said exactly, but it rambled a bit. I only remember the end, "I love you so much it hurts. This hurts more. The only thing that could possibly top this pain-wise is knowing that I ruined your, or anyone else's, life. Please don't try to find me; even I don't know where I'm going. The only thing I know for sure is that we can't be who we are and have what we have. It will only hurt someone. My heart is yours. That has to be enough for both of us. Love, your Donnatella." Our last contact was my kiss to his head, my tears dripping into his hair.

In the early hours of down, I caught a cab back to my own apartment. I typed up a lame, stumbling resignation to Leo, hoping that the day would be off to a late start due the previous night's parties. Maybe I could make some sort of headway before anyone noticed I was gone. I showered, dressed, and stuffed some clothes into a suitcase. I was on autopilot. Called the airport. Made reservations for the next flight to Milwaukee. Collected some odds and ends to get me through a few weeks before the rest of my stuff could be boxed and shipped. I wrote a pathetic explanation to my roommate, Olivia, who was out of town on business, telling her what was going on (but not really) and giving her my deepest apologies about leaving her high and dry in D.C. without a roommate to share expenses. I also begged her desperately, not to disclose where I was to any of my co-workers. I faxed my resignation at the very last minute, trying to buy as much time as possible.

There was a terrible finality to it all, as I stood in the doorway of my apartment, duffel bag in hand. My tears from that night had dissipated, I looked the picture of composure to passersby, but as the further I got from D.C., the further I got from him, the more I felt my heart rip in half.

I called my favorite aunt and uncle from National Airpot. Out of all my family, parents and siblings included, Aunt Flo and Uncle Jim were my favorites. As a child, I spent more time with them than with my immediate family, I think. Aunt Flo is my mom's sister, yet they couldn't be more different. Whereas my mother is poised and proper, Aunt Flo is carefree and spontaneous. Her husband is the exact same way. A lot of me comes from them. Upon hearing their beloved niece was coming for a visit, they immediately agreed to pick me up from the Milwaukee airport, swearing not to tell my parents.

They came, smiling and waving and excited. Upon seeing me, though, they knew something was terribly wrong.

At that point, I don't remember a whole lot. They took me back to their house, I know, but other than that, the next several weeks were a blur. Lots of crying. Lots of physical pain. Not much of anything else. Flo and Jim were a godsend as my hosts. They are still my support system, even now, as far as getting a job, an education, this small ranch house in the suburbs. My parents have come around more recently, but Flo and Jim are my protectors. They helped me through the darkest days.

I don't know when I began to realize that the vomiting and weakness I was experiencing might be unrelated to my emotional state, but it slowly became clear after about a month and a half that something was off. I dragged myself out of bed to go to the doctor's expecting to get prescribed some sort of antibiotic to fight the effects of cold and flu season.

BAM.

The thunder pounds especially hard, almost right on top of the house, rousing me out of my memory. Moments later, a wail erupts from down the hall.

Almost automatically, I stumble to my feet, making my way down the dark corridor to my son's nursery. At seven months old, little Zachary James Moss has inherited his father's insistent cries for help. I struggle to collect myself for the sake of my scared baby boy. Shaking, I lift him out of his crib and settle into the rocking chair at his bedside.

"Shhhh, my baby. Shh. Mommy's here, Zach." I say it to calm myself, as much as him. I am his mommy. I have to be calm and collected for him, if no one else.

The soothing begins to calm us both. After a while, the thunder begins to fade away. I still rock him. I look into my son's eyes then. They're his daddy's. Big and brown and deep. Other than his full head of downy blonde hair, he is all Josh. Nose, chin, smile. Josh, Josh, Josh.

This ritual of ours, this rocking, brings me so much joy. Yet, there's a contradiction. As much of a thrill as I get out of just staring at my son, there is something infinitely sad about it. Something that makes me feel guilty and empty and selfish and sad and a million other things all at once.

Josh will never get to rock his son like this. Josh will never stare into Zach's big brown eyes with pride. Josh will never pull out pictures and brag about Zach's accomplishments. Josh will never even know of Zach's existence.

Zach will never have a dad to take him to baseball games. Zach will never have a dad to discuss "guy stuff" with. Zach. Zach will never get to shop for his dad on Father's Day. Zach will never know his father, other than as a spokesperson you see every now and then on television.

I will never get the dream wedding that every little girl dreams of. I will never know the joy of raising a family with Josh. I will never get to kiss Josh or tell him how much I love him. I will watch silently as he marries Amy Gardner in three months, and does all of that with her.

This was a lose-lose situation. There was no right answer. Go on with him, and pretend it never happened? Come out to the press, and ruin our careers, and the careers of many of our co-workers and employers? Be separated? Be happy together, but without money or connections? So many possibilities, yet none of them particularly appealing. Any remotely appealing outcome was not realistically in the realm of possibility.

As I think about the future, about what will happen in the next few days, weeks, months, years, and decades, the tears start falling. For everyone. For those I love in the West Wing. For myself. For Josh. For our son.

In that moment, I make a decision. I know what I will do.

The world clears up a bit.

The healing begins.

END.

_THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;_

_It rains,and the wind is never weary;_

_The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,_

_But at every gust the dead leaves fall,_

_And the day is dark and dreary._

_My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;_

_It rains,and the wind is never weary;_

_My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,_

_But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,_

_And the days are dark and dreary._

_Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;_

_Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;_

_Thy fate is the common fate of all,_

_Into each life some rain must fall,_

_Some days must be dark and dreary._

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Rainy Day_

Author's Notes: Blah. Okay. I'm not a fanatical West Wing shipper or anything. I love the show, but I'm far from an internet fanatic. However, I am a writer, and my writer's brain is always thinking. This idea has been creeping up on me for a while now, about secrets and scandal and leaving. I am, admittedly, appalling at writing romantic scenes. It just dissolves into Harlequin-esque crap, which I'm sure Josh and Donna would abhor if they did get together. I was just kicking this around, and it got longer and longer. I'm not planning a continuation, but I might consider a Josh POV or a series if there were a lot of requests. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
